


Sanguine, My Brother

by amanounmei



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amanounmei/pseuds/amanounmei





	Sanguine, My Brother

He fell onto his back with a loud ‘umph’. For a moment he could see nothing, only whirling, distorted, shapeless spots of colour around him. After a couple of moments – or perhaps hours, he could not tell – the world finally stopped and he could sit up. He coughed as the ash made its presence known to him.

There were footsteps behind him.

“You’ve done it!” said the voice of the man he recognized as Savlian Matius, captain of the local guard. Two other helped the dirty warrior up to his feet. “You’ve actually done it!”

“I did,” the tall man – of the height of a Nord, the guards observed – said slowly. He stared at his hand in which he held an orb of the colour of mud and adorned with veins resembling lava. He stuffed it into a leather bag at his side and sighed, staring at the city walls.

“The battle is not won yet,” Savlian said, his tone once again growing serious and concerned. “There are still people in there.”

The Nord nodded firmly. Once again he drew his sword, a strange weapon with two blades; one was iron, and the outer, longer one, living fire. Its owner took a few steps forward, past what remained of the crumbled, still smoldering gate, and stopped at the entrance to the city.

“Let’s get them out,” he said.

 

Matius took his time speaking to the Redguard officer they met inside the chapel. They would have to plan how to reclaim the city, now that the daedra were cut off from any reinforcements.

But the Nord that came in with the guards could not care less. As soon as he set foot in the holy home of Akatosh, he went deeper inside to look for what, or more like whom, he came for.

The place was in no better condition than the rest of the city. Although its walls were intact and three gates still stood, the smell of death and feeling of despair was still present. People were scattered in between the benches; some of them laid on bedrolls made of dirty cloths, most of them stain with blood, whilst others knelt by the main altar in silent, desperate prayer. As the Nord wandered carefully among them, he noticed how many had cloth wrapped around various parts of their bodies instead of bandages. One woman, with a very terrified look on her face, was sitting cross-legged on the floor and slowly munching on a piece of dry bread.

The Nord quickly averted his gaze when she looked up at him, and once again scoured his surroundings. By one of the lesser altars by a side wall, which was situated beneath an ornate stained glass depicting Akatosh, stood a strangely familiar man.

He was dressed in plain blue robes that marked him as a priest. His face was round, yet slightly thin at the same time. His shoulder-length hair he let loose, but kept them rather neat. And those eyes… those brilliant blue eyes gleamed in candlelight and were very, very familiar.

The armoured Nord approached carefully and removed his helmet, revealing long loose hair of a shade slightly lighter than that of the man before him and a thinner, dirty face. He bowed ever so slightly.

The priest eyed him critically, his face an unchanging mask of something that could be described only as a mixture of pain, despair and grief.

“You closed the Oblivion Gate,” he announced evenly. “You gave these people hope.”

“So I did,” the Nord replied truthfully. “I came here for you.”

The man – obviously of Imperial blood – raised an eyebrow in clear doubt. “Who are you?”

“My name is Anthir,” the Nord said. “I hail from Solitude, but that is not important.”

“Then what is important?” the priest asked with a slightly irritated snort.

“You are Martin, are you not? The priest?”

The Imperial looked at him wearily, his eyes half-closed. “Yes,” he said sharply. “I am a priest. Do you need one? I doubt I will be of much help to you. I have trouble understanding the gods right now.”

Anthir eyed him slowly, slightly taken aback. He never was sure how to act in such situations; his own faith was strong.

But wait… it was not, back in the day. Still, all he managed to say was simply:

“Martin…?”

“I prayed to Akatosh all through that terrible night,” the Imperial said, crossing his arms on his chest “but no help came.” With this, he looked up at the stained glass that presented the Dragon God, proud and strong. The priest glared at it accusingly and added: “Only more daedra. If all this is part of a divine plan… I’m not sure I want to have anything to do with it.”

Anthir shook his head. He never really considered the Nine, never pondered their teaching nor existence as such. His own faith laid elsewhere, but it was unwise to betray such allegiances.

“Gods or not, you are in danger,” he said. Gulping down, he added: “You are Uriel Septim’s son.”

Martin blinked. And again. And then he snorted with humourless laughter, so bitter it made the Nord shudder. “Emperor Uriel Septim?” he shook his head, still laughing. “No, you must have the wrong man,” he then added, his voice calming down and features becoming the pained mask again. “My father was a farmer.”

Anthir narrowed his eyes. “Martin,” he said firmly, “look at me.”

Reluctantly, the Imperial turned. The other eyed his tired face slowly. “You are so much like His Majesty,” he said, but the words came out as but a whisper. “The same handsome face. The same gleam in your eyes…”

“You must be mistaken…” the priest tried to cut in.

“I was there when he died,” the Nord interrupted him. When the only response to this were eyebrows raised in doubt and question, he went on: “He told me to find you… knew you were in danger.” He shook his head. “Martin, the daedra came here for you.”

The Imperial now stared, his mouth falling open. For a long moment he could not utter a word, but finally he gasped: “Me? An entire city destroyed to get at _me_? _Why_?”

He stared at the Nord with eyes slightly narrowed, almost accusingly. Then his features softened and he looked crestfallen. “Because I’m the Emperor’s son?”

“Why would I lie to you?” Anthir shrugged his shoulders slightly.

“I… don’t know,” Martin let out a heavy sigh. “It’s all so strange… I… I think I believe you.”

The Nord allowed himself a small smile. “Come with me to Weynon Priory. All will be clear there.”

The priest looked at the chapel gates, where Savlian Matius and his men were gathering the refugees to lead them out of the city. He sighed again, this time through his nose, and said:

“To Weynon Priory then.”

 

This was war. And yet, as for a war, it was most bizarre.

There was no ruler and the only heir was hid away safely where – hopefully – no one would reach him. True, there were soldiers and battles against the invading daedra, but the main, no, decisive strike force acted subtly and in secrecy.

So far it has acquired one of the four keys.

The black mare neighed nervously as she approached the double gate of Cloud Ruler Temple. Two sturdy men in the armour of the Blades ran up and paused as they saw a familiar rider clad in the same Akaviri outfit. He was smiling from underneath his helmet and let his fellow Blades lead his steed to the stables.

Once there, he carefully dismounted, stifling a hiss, and untied the biggest of bags attached to the saddle. The bag made odd, slightly chiming and very metallic noises as the man made his way to the Temple’s main hall, limping on his left leg. He dismissed the protests of the other two with a shake of his head, intended on completing the task before tending to himself.

He found Martin in the main hall. As always nowadays, the former priest was sitting at his special table, leaning against it as he read through the encrypted passages of the Mysterium Xarxes. The accursed book seemed to emanate some sort of strange light and cast it over Martin’s handsome face and his hair that fell loosely at its sides.

He could not help but look up as he heard footsteps and metallic chiming.

He smiled. “Ah, Anthir… good to see you again.”

The Nord dropped the bag to the floor near Martin’s table. It made a bit of a noise. “Glad to be back,” he said, but did not return the smile. “I brought you what you asked for.”

The former priest took a peek into the bag and his eyes widened ever so slightly. “The armour of Tiber Septim himself… I can hardly believe I see it with my own eyes…” He then blinked as if remembering something and looked back up at the Blade.

“But you are wounded,” he said, suddenly standing up. He grabbed Anthir by his armoured wrist and carefully pulled him towards the east wing of the Temple. “You need healing…”

“Martin…” Anthir began, but a sudden pain in his leg muffled any other word and he obeyed, following.

The Imperial led him to his private, royal chamber and immediately ordered him to remove the armour and sit down on the bed. The Nord was no stranger to pain, but being as fed up with it as he was, again he obeyed.

The bed was soft and slightly cold, helping him relax after such a long and tiring journey. While he removed the heavy plates of his Akaviri outfit, Martin scoured every shelf, chest and drawer there was in the room. With bandages and a jar of some sort of balm in hand, he knelt before Anthir.

He did not have to remove the breeches to behold the wound. The fabric was torn, revealing a long and deep cut along the thigh. It seemed to have ceased to bleed a while ago, but the bloodstains covered the entire leg. And the wound was very, very dirty.

Martin looked up at the Nord who stared back at him with some nervousness in his eyes. What caused it neither of them knew, but the former priest decided to spare his friend any more stress and simply ripped the fabric of his breeches instead of pulling them down. He then applied some of the greasy balm to the cut, making Anthir hiss.

“Sorry,” he said softly with an apologetic smile. “It may sting a bit, but will clean the wound.”

Anthir sighed as the other started wrapping bandages around his thigh. When the Imperial tied two ends of the linen together, a strong pale hand was laid on his.

“Thank you,” the Nord smiled.

Martin wanted to say that he could always count on him, but his eyes were fixed on the pale hand.

There was a ring. A delicate, purely white band with a star engulfed by a crescent moon.

Martin narrowed his eyes. “Anthir… this ring…”

The Nord stared down and held a gasp. Quickly he withdrew the hand. He averted his gaze from the Imperial.

“You’re the Nerevarine,” the former priest announced softly.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” Anthir whispered, his voice somewhat weak. “I wanted to leave this behind. Forget it all.”

Martin slowly pulled himself up and sat on the bed by the other man. “Why?” he asked.

Anthir glared at him, but that did not impress the Imperial at all. “I was born for someone else’s vengeance,” he said, his eyes fixed on his hands, now nervously entwined on his lap.

“Tell me,” the former priest urged him gently.

The Nord looked at him to see a warm, caring smile on his face. Martin seemed very tired – pale and his featured thinned ever so slightly. Grey skin under his eyes indicated how little sleep he got lately. And yet that one smile, that one little shift on his face, made him look more beautiful and more concerned than ever.

Anthir told himself that this has to be his priestly habit, to listen to other people and comfort them in need.

He did not want to believe that.

He sighed. “You must have heard the legends surrounding Red Mountain.” In response he got a slow, slightly uncertain nod. “It was because of Azura.”

Martin raised his brows. “Prince Azura?”

Anthir only nodded his head. “She had a quarrel with the Triune,” he said after a moment of uneasy silence. “I was to be the instrument of her revenge.”

The other gasped quietly, shaking his head. “And yet you wear the ring.”

The Nord squeezed his hand tightly, but did not reply.

Martin smiled at him again. “I know more about daedra than I want to,” he said softly. “I know how mischievous and deceptive they can be.”

“Even the one the whole Empire turns to in need?”

“Even her.”

Anthir let out a heavy sigh, absent-mindedly running a finger along the small white band over and over. Neither of them uttered another word; the Imperial only stood up and slowly walked towards the window. With arms crossed on his chest, he watched the outside world.

It was dusk, a sacred hour of Azura. Here darkness fell quicker than in other parts of the province, as here in the Jerall Mountains the sun hid behind the soaring tops. It was snowing outside; the lazily falling flakes looked calm and serene on the background of a starless, clouded sky.

Anthir’s eyes did not once turn to Martin.

“I worshipped a daedra once,” the former priest confessed. “Long ago.”

Again the Nord did not reply. His eyes were fixed somewhere before him, but they were unfocussed and not really seeing anything. In his mind, the Blade recalled a scene in the main hall of this very Temple. He remembered Martin sitting at his special table before the cracking fire, bent over the damned book. He recalled his face, the shock and fear in his eyes when he was given the Rose. And the words he then said, words that made it clear which Prince he once worshipped.

And then Anthir recalled a secret password he was given by a man in black.

“Sanguine,” he said.

“What?” Martin snapped, turning away from the window. “What did you say?”

“You worshipped Sanguine,” the Nord explained calmly, looking at the Imperial over his shoulder.

The former priest sighed and shook his head. “I was young and foolish,” he said. “As every young man, I craved power. He gave me more than just that.”

“He gave you pleasure,” Anthir said before he could bite his own tongue.

“I’m not proud of it,” Martin snorted. “It was all a mistake. I left it behind.”

“Martin-“

“No more about that,” the Imperial cut in sharply. “You may have my quarters for the night, Lord Nerevar.” He headed for the thin door, his face a mask fixed on anger.

“Martin, wait-“

“I bid you goodnight.” With this, he left.

 

Anthir did not sleep. He pondered, long and intense, about what has occurred that very evening.

Sanguine… the daedra of, frankly speaking, perverted sex and alcohol.

He snorted to himself. Martin, the ever calm and depressed priest, worshipping Sanguine? It seemed so unlikely. But then again, there were so many things the world did not know about him, Anthir of Solitude.

It made sense that Martin joined the cult of the Nine to atone for some sin related to his life as a daedric mage.

So many unanswered questions, yet at this moment there was only one he wanted answered.

The bed was very soft and comfortable. But it would feel so much warmer if there was someone lying next to him.

 

The more time passed, the more distant Martin seemed. He ceased to read; he _brooded_ over the Mysterium Xarxes. No, he was not silent. He spoke to his Blades quite often, but no longer did he smile, and his words were emotionless.

Anthir felt like he has killed something inside his friend as he laid the faintly glowing stone before him. He only got a nod; and Martin was so excited at the perspective of seeing a Great Welkynd Stone with his own eyes. Yet, he hardly acknowledged that the crystal is now his to use. It was Jauffre that had to explain the desperate plan of allowing the Mythic Dawn to open a Great Gate by Bruma.

The Nord looked with a shock at his old Grandmaster, but did not disagree with the plan. Some things just had to be done.

Anthir stared sadly at Martin’s still, bent figure.

“It’s been getting worse,” Jauffre sighed. “I fear that evil book is sowing its seed…”

_Keep believing that,_ the other thought.

“You should talk to him,” the Breton announced.

The Nord blinked, his eyes fixed upon the priest. “Why me?” he asked.

“You’re the only one who hasn’t tried to find out what’s wrong,” the old Blade said.

Anthir sighed, but nodded. “Very well. I’ll try.”

 

When Martin returned to his quarters that night, he noticed nothing. Only when he removed his robe and was left in but a pair of worn breeches did he notice something amiss in a corner. One shadow was different, deeper, a slight change in the pattern of darkness.

“Who’s there?”

“Only me,” Anthir said, stepping out into the light.

Martin sighed through his nose, relaxing, clearly relieved. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk,” the Nord replied truthfully.

The Imperial shook his head. “There is nothing to talk about,” he said firmly, yet his voice sounded weary. He motioned towards the door. “Go.”

“I will not,” came the soft protest. “I have hurt you, Martin, and I came to repair it.”

“It was not you,” the former priest said dryly, looking away. “And this cannot be repaired. But you will not understand.”

Anthir took a few steps forward, but stopped a fair distance away from the other man. He dared not come closer. Not yet.

“What makes you think so?” he asked.

Martin gave a small shrug.

“We have more in common than you think,” the Nord said, making one more step forth. “There was a time when I doubted my faith as much as you do.”

“Faith,” the Imperial snorted. “I’m not sure where my faith lies anymore. Jauffre keeps praying to the Nine… but where are they?” Here he turned to Anthir, his face calm, but his magnificent blue eyes shone with sheer anger. “Or your Azura. If she’s so good, where is she?”

The Nord shook his head, going even further forward. He was now only a step away from the other, who seemed not to care at all. His face was blank… save for the eyes.

“She is not my queen,” Anthir said, his voice nothing more than a whisper now. “My allegiance lies elsewhere.”

“But-“

“Wait,” he smiled as he interrupted Martin, who only stared at him with growing weariness and curiosity. “We both have a past we want to leave behind. I have a debt of gratitude to a different Prince… the same that has changed your life. And mine alike.”

Martin blinked, the anger in his eyes giving way to bewilderment. He shook his head, letting out a soft gasp. “You?” he asked. “This cannot be…”

The reply that came was short, but not at all simple.

“Sanguine, my brother.”

The Imperial did not even try to pretend he understands. He shook his head once more. “Is this what you came for then? To reopen a wound that I hoped has healed?”

“No,” Anthir said at once. “I know how it must hurt you, but nothing in this world is accidental.” When all he got in reply was an irritated snort, he went on: “His name has given me a new life. Perhaps what you have experienced back then will yet serve some purpose.”

“My knowledge of daedra will,” Martin admitted dryly, his voice deep and low. “But the blood on my hands will not.”

“The Rose already did,” the Nord observed. Martin shuddered and eyed the other wearily. “Each step we make is a step away from the past, Martin.” Anthir laid a hand on the Imperial’s shoulder. He averted his gaze, but did not oppose. “You cannot dwell in the past if you are to build a future.”

“Anthir…” the former priest finally managed a small smile.

The Nord smiled back, his heart beating like a drum. Slowly he extended a hand and took Martin’s in it, the small Moon-and-Star warm against their flesh. The Imperial’s expression changed to that of confusion as he stared at the taller man with a mute question in his shining eyes.

Anthir took a deep breath. His heart skipped a beat as he uttered the words: “Martin… I love you.”

The other moved his lips as if trying to reply, but no words came. He lifted his free hand to his chest and looked down, but a stronger hand grabbed his chin and forced it up.

“I understand if you refuse…” Anthir whispered and was truly surprised how much the last word stung him.

Much to his relief, the Imperial shook his head. “It’s…” he began but broke off. “I’m afraid to love again… after what happened with the Rose…” He sighed. “I chose priesthood for a reason…”

The taller man also sighed, but through his nose, hoping the other does not notice. He embraced him carefully and when he met no resistance, he pulled Martin to his chest in a gentle hug.

“I will not harm you,” he whispered, soothing the messy brown hair. “I would have never forgiven myself if I did so…”

“It’s not it…” the Imperial bit his lips. “I’m not afraid of _you_ …”

Anthir squeezed his hand gently. “Then give me a chance… I will help you love again…”

The pause that followed stretched into what seemed to be hours. The two of them just stood there, staring at each other equally nervously and equally unable to speak, with two hands entwined and two hearts pounding so fast they skipped beats. Footsteps echoed outside; Anthir turned to the door, but no one came in. What would they think if they did and saw them like this?

Martin bit his lips again. Then, he whispered: “Alright…”

Anthir nearly collapsed, his legs suddenly weak. He was scarcely sure he heard that one word. He wanted to hear it, almost craved it, but now that it came he had no idea what to do. The world span.

“Anthir?” the former priest asked, brows raised.

He got a broad, gentle smile in reply. “Martin…” the Nord whispered, embracing the other a bit tighter, this time with both of his strong arms, holding him as close as he dared only in the boldest dreams. “Oh Martin…”

The other returned the smile, resting his head against the muscled chest and clutching the dark shirt. But he did not last like this for long; one of Anthir’s hands pulled him up ever so slightly. The Nord was a head taller than his partner, so he had to bend over significantly, and the other stood almost on tiptoe. But still, Anthir kissed him.

Martin did not oppose. Closing his eyes, he parted his lips. The other took the chance and deepened the kiss, exploring the warm mouth with his tongue.

They parted only when both of them lacked breath. They pulled apart, gasping, but only a few inches away.

“Martin…” Anthir whispered with a gentle smile on his face.

The former priest rested his head against the taller man’s chest, his arms wrapped around him. The Nord buried a hand in the dark hair, the other rubbing Martin’s back.

“Martin…” he repeated in the soft whisper, kissing the hair. The Imperial smiled at this. “I want you…” Anthir added.

The former priest pulled back and stared at him with wide, brilliant eyes.

“Do not fear me,” the other said, forcing himself to remain calm.

“I do not,” Martin whispered back, although his expression suggested otherwise. “But…”

“Tomorrow we march to battle,” Anthir cut in smoothly, silencing the other. He pulled him back to his chest. “Only the Elder Scrolls can foresee how it will end.” He bowed his head and lowered his voice. Barely audible, he said into Martin’s ear: “There may never be another chance…”

There was a moment of silence in which Martin only clung to the other’s dark linen shirt. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Anthir kissed his hair again and, still hugging the former priest, led him to the royal bed.

“Have you…” he asked, but trailed off, unsure how to word it. “Have you done this before?”

The Imperial detached himself from the other. “Sanguine,” he said simply.

Anthir gave him a warm smile again and quickly removed his shirt not to let his partner feel alone and exposed. Martin did not seem embarrassed at all; he simply sat on the bed and patted the sheets next to himself. 

The Nord sat, wrapping his arms around his lover and pressing his lips against the other’s. His free hand wandered over the exposed chest as they kissed, brushing against a nipple every now and then. The kiss ended, but instead of pulling back, the Nord licked Martin’s cheek and moved to the neck. The former priest rested his arms on the muscled back, letting out a soft sigh. 

Anthir, on the other hand, was beyond himself with nervousness. This seemed too good to be true…

“You’re so beautiful…” he whispered in between his kisses, but there was nothing more in reply than a smile. But he could not care less; he went on, descending slowly, feeling himself aroused already from the sheer thought of what may come later. Certain he blushed that very moment, the Nord planted a soft kiss on the other’s belly an paused, but only for a short moment.

Martin laid back on the bed as he felt a strong hand press against his crotch. It rubbed slowly through his breeches and the Imperial only closed his eyes and absent-mindedly spread his legs a bit wider, allowing the taller man to do as he pleased.

He could not help but moan as the hand touched his bare skin. He shivered as his nude legs laid on the cool sheets, but he could not care less. It has been too long since he last felt this light-headed, this… good.

The kisses on his belly continued and descended ever so slowly. Then there was only warmth and the overwhelming bliss.

“A-An-thir…” he moaned, burying a hand in the thick brown hair.

The Nord paused, hearing his name uttered with so much desire. His heart, already sped up by arousal of both body and soul, beat even faster and louder as he continued to please his lover.

Martin let out a groan, his back arching slightly. His hand gripped a handful of hair almost on its own, but Anthir ignored the pain. He did not want to stop; yet he did when the other hissed out a short “stop”. He then pulled back and looked up at the former priest, smiling gently, partially in reassurance, partially in apology.

Martin returned the smile. “Kiss me,” he whispered.

He certainly did not have to ask twice. Their lips locked together and their tongues danced as they struggled to explore each other’s mouths. Anthir’s crotch pressed against the former priest, causing them both to moan into the passionate kiss. They broke apart after long moments of sweet oblivion, gasping for breath.

“In,” Martin demanded, his own chest heaving heavily against the Nord’s muscles. “Now.”

“But…” Anthir protested weakly. “But you’re not ready…”

“I am,” the Imperial reassured him, his face showing only plea and ecstasy. “Please…”

The other could not protest; the wanted this just as much, perhaps even more. With a sharp gasp he pushed in, his head spinning with unbelieving bliss. He would have never dared to say this would actually ever happen, and yet here he is…

Martin gripped the sheets tightly, his half-closed eyes unfocused. Apparently he was feeling just as overwhelmed as Anthir was; the movements inside him were steady, but not exactly slow. The Nord could not control himself, driven by his own demanding arousal.

They clung to each other as if they were the last people on Tamriel – and there and now, they were. Nothing else mattered as they melted in yet another kiss.

Suddenly, the whole world span. There was nothing left but the burning heat and overwhelming pleasure that lasted far too short. They were back on the royal bed on Cloud Ruler Temple, locked in a tight embrace and panting against each other’s shoulders.

“Oh, Martin…” Anthir whispered, eyes closed to stop tears he felt gathering under the lids.

“Shh…”

“I love you…”

“I know you do,” the Imperial smiled gently, running a hand along the taller man’s back. “And… well, I think I’d want it to stay that way…”

Anthir could not stop himself. He pulled up, supporting himself on his arms, staring at the other with his eyes wide and the tears on streaming down his cheeks. Then he smiled, shaking his head, and clung to Martin’s once more in yet another kiss.

“We need rest,” the Imperial chuckled as they parted. “Stay here for the night…”

“But we should at least clean ourselves…” the Nord protested carefully, but slid off the other nonetheless and laid down next to him.

“That can wait,” Martin nodded and made himself comfortable on the huge, soft pillow, facing the taller man.

There was a moment of silence before Anthir asked. “What will the Blades think when they see us like this…?”

The other gave a small shrug. “They can think what they will. But they are loyal. Now stop worrying and rest…”

And so they slept with their hands entwined between them, and slept peacefully. In their dreams they both awaited the oncoming dawn that would soon be painted red.

Or, perhaps, sanguine.


End file.
